


Cold And Closed

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Episode Related, F/M, Friendship, Heartbreak, Marriage, Strength
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1341316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she felt as though there were no more tears left to cry, Constance took a deep breath and began to steady herself. She sought a way forward, a reclaiming of her future, because she wouldn't be crying anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold And Closed

**Author's Note:**

> Set after episode 1x08 'The Challenge'. Written because I cannot stand an absence of hope.

 

 

When she felt as though there were no more tears left to cry, Constance took a deep breath and began to try to steady herself. It was a difficult task, every part of her felt as though it was shaking. She had cried and cried and still felt so raw, so hollowed-out. Her husband had never been particularly soft or loving, but he had been kind to her and appreciative. It had not been an exciting marriage, but it had been better than the lot suffered by so many women. And how had she repaid him? By betraying and hurting him so deeply, he had forced her to chase away d’Artagnan – oh, the _look_ in d'Artagnan's eyes as he had left, desolation and heartache swelled within Constance afresh. Her husband had aligned himself with the Cardinal, he had threatened d’Artagnan’s life, he had…

 

 

Everything suddenly stilled and Constance’s hand twisted sharply in her skirts. He had claimed that unless she broke d’Artagnan’s heart, he would tell the Cardinal that d’Artagnan plotted against him. She had never seen such poisoned anger in her husband’s face before, such hatred and malevolence. She had caused that. It hadn't disappeared in the days since, so really, neither had his threat. Who was to say that he wouldn’t simply make such claims about d'Artagnan to the Cardinal anyway? To make her days truly grey, to ensure that she could never have what she so shamefully still most desired.

 

 

Constance dried her face and got to her feet. She had been sat in the parlour for long enough. Her heart still hurt, but it would hurt even more if she did not act. She had caused d'Artagnan enough pain, she would do all she could now to prevent him from suffering more.

 

 

She couldn’t go the garrison, they likely wouldn’t allow her in and d’Artagnan wouldn’t listen to her. Constance closed her eyes, swallowing another wave of pain before resolving herself. She would prepare, she would take note of all that she heard her husband speak about concerning the Cardinal. She would not shed another tear in her husband’s sight, she would be a good silent wife, she would fulfil her duties but her body and heart would be cold now for all but one, one that she still held fast her thoughts despite everything. Her husband could not take that from her.

 

 

She would remember those lessons with d’Artagnan, learning the skill of blade and musket. He hadn’t thought her mad or a fool for wanting to learn. He had admired and respected her, he had _loved_ her.

 

 

Her heart ached, but she would remember, no matter how much it hurt, and she would be ready.

 

 

*

 

 

Aramis was furious. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one in their little group to realise what might have happened, but he was the only one doing anything about it. Well, anything useful. Athos had likely recognised another nursing a deeply broken heart; it would explain why he’d begun accepting d’Artagnan’s company when deep in his cups.

 

 

Porthos had been whisked away for a mission shortly after d’Artagnan had become a Musketeer and was due to return at any hour. Aramis couldn’t wait for him. He had time now for this confrontation so now it would be.

 

 

He hammered a fist loudly against the Bonacieux’s door and barged in as soon as it was opened. Madame Bonacieux hurried after him.

 

 

“Do all Musketeers have no manners? Or is it just you?”

 

 

Aramis spun around and Madame Bonacieux took a step back, likely both in surprise at his sudden movement and at seeing the anger in his eyes. Good.

 

 

“You have no right to speak of manners I think, madame, not after your recent behaviour.”

 

 

Madame Bonacieux’s face paled and looked pinched. Aramis could see clearly that his hunch had proven true. He was sorry for it.

 

 

“I know you capable of many things, madame, most of them admirable and appealing, but such heartfelt cruelty doesn’t become you at all. On the day that d’Artagnan killed the man who burned his home and joined our ranks; he couldn’t truly celebrate it because his heart lay shattered by your hand.”

 

 

Madame Bonacieux’s gaze darted towards the door, quite deliberately before she spoke. “You presume a lot, monsieur, forcing your way into my house, accusing me as though I should regret reminding a soldier of his place. He is a _boy_ , monsieur, a boy with too many dreams. This is a respectable household; his place is obviously in your garrison, where manners and decency are so often in short supply.”

 

 

Her gaze strayed again to the door, like a signal. Aramis frowned slightly, her words were fiery enough but her manner was not quite aligned. He knew the many languages of women, and though he couldn’t claim to know Constance Bonacieux as well as d’Artagnan did, he knew enough to sense that she was attempting to silently tell him something.

 

 

Her hand brushed through her hair, fingers firmly touching her ear. Ah, someone was listening.

 

 

Had someone been listening the day she had so mercilessly broken d’Artagnan’s heart?

 

 

A customer of her husband perhaps. A customer, _and_ her husband? Aramis closed his eyes briefly; he could discern all too well what might truly be stirring here beneath an already heart-breaking surface. Another hunch. He knew women; he also knew what men did to hurt them.

 

 

Madame Bonacieux pressed her lips together. Of course, neither of them could voice such thoughts. He had to continue to be angry. He straightened, his expression one of understanding. Madame Bonacieux’s posture slumped momentarily before she too straightened up. Sympathy and concern filled him at her plight. What a web to be caught in, where love was a weapon used so cruelly, hurting so many people. Here, marriage was a shrinking cage instead of a flight to greater happier heights.

 

 

“And yet you so easily accepted Musketeer money when he stayed here. The money is good enough, but the man isn’t? Or is it because he’s such a _boy_? I fear the garrison isn’t the only place where decency and manners are in short supply, madame…”

 

 

_Crack!_

 

 

Aramis' words were halted by Madame Bonacieux slapping him magnificently hard across the face. He'd probably deserved that for the insinuation but at least it would also convince anyone listening that Constance and the Musketeers were irrevocably at odds.

 

 

And when she had darted close enough to deliver the blow, Madame Bonacieux had also pressed a fold of paper into Aramis’ hand. In a twinkling, he now secreted it about his person with the slightest of nods towards her. It was all the reassurance he could offer for now.

 

 

Madame Bonacieux’s expression didn’t falter. She still looked livid as her voice rose. “You insult me in my own home. Leave, now.”

 

 

Aramis’ bow was mocking, as were his words. But he made sure to catch her eye as he spoke, so that she knew the truth of it. “Take care of yourself, _madame_.”

 

 

Just before he reached the door, Monsieur Bonacieux appeared out of a nearby room and almost bumped into him. He wore an expression of superiority and triumph. Aramis forced himself not to throw a closed fist, or to draw his sword. He hadn’t seen any marks on Madame Bonacieux, but judging by her husband’s demeanour, her own home was no longer a pleasant or safe haven for her. Her husband's was now clearly and permanently against her.

 

 

Aramis touched a hand to his hat in an apparently respectful greeting. “You have quite the wife, monsieur. I do not envy you.”

 

 

He did not wait to hear Monsieur Bonacieux’s reply, but marched away as though furious with what he had encountered. He was. Once he was several streets away, he found a quiet hidden corner and read Madame Bonacieux’s note. It was marked for d’Artagnan, but she had to know that Aramis wouldn't chance being the bearer of news that could send his friend into an even greater slump.

 

 

Aramis read the carefully-penned words at a gallop and sighed heavily and with grit when he reached the end. Occasionally, he hated being right.

 

 

*

 

 

D’Artagnan didn’t know how long he sat listening to Porthos in the garrison’s yard; he’d lost the thread of conversation some time ago. Recently he had been unable to think of anything clearly, except for the fleur-de-lis that he now wore proudly at his shoulder, and the woman who had caused his heart to seize so and grow cold and remote.

 

 

How could he think of anything else? He was grateful for his friends’ company and support, but still he didn’t speak of her to them. He couldn’t speak of her at all. Maybe he’d never be able to again; maybe his future would be like Athos’ present – to be a truly great soldier, with a gaping unhealable wound inside.

 

 

He was considering starting on the wine when Aramis burst through the gates with great purpose. His gaze sought out d’Artagnan immediately, d’Artagnan barely responded. He hoped Aramis had orders for a new mission.

 

 

Porthos had seen Aramis as well. “And how many beds have you rumpled during my absence?”

 

 

Aramis’ smile was brief but piercing. “Too many to describe in appropriate detail now. I have news.”

 

 

He didn’t say anymore but headed for the stairs. Apparently it was private news. Perhaps they had been ordered to take on a secret mission. D’Artagnan followed, hoping that the mission would be long and difficult. He needed the distraction.

 

 

But once inside Aramis’ garrison quarters, he turned to d’Artagnan, his expression as clear a warning as d’Artagnan could comprehend before a letter was thrust into his hands.

 

 

“From Madame Bonacieux, and you’ll want to read it,” Aramis explained before d’Artagnan could ask.

 

 

If his heart had not become closed and cold so recently, then fresh pain would have lanced through d’Artagnan at Aramis' words, if his heart had not become a hard bitter husk, it would have shuddered. D’Aragnan’s mouth became a resolute line. “She has said all I ever wish to hear…”

 

 

“Her voice was forced, her hand was not.”

 

 

Aramis looked serious. Forced? D’Artagnan frowned, forced by who? There had been no one in the house that day at that time. How could there have been? How could Constance have been forced to throw off their love like that, claiming it to be a threat to her respectable future? Still, he was reading Constance’s words before he fully realised it, dimly aware of Aramis explaining to Porthos and Athos how he had gone to the Bonacieux’s to confront Constance about d’Artagnan’s worrying state.

 

 

d’Artagnan’s mouth dropped open as he read. Something stirred, entirely against his will.

 

 

This could be lies, it _had_ to be lies. Constance had meant every word that she’d spat at him that day, he had seen the derision in her face, how easily she’d hurt him for her own sake…

 

 

Except “The Cardinal.”

 

 

His murmured sentence gained the others’ attention. Athos raised an eyebrow expectantly. “The Cardinal?”

 

 

D’Artagnan forced himself to swallow, to continue. “She says her husband threatened to report that he heard me plotting to kill the Cardinal.”

 

 

Athos narrowed his eyes slightly. “His Eminence has needed less excuse to order an execution before.”

 

 

Armais approached d’Artagnan. “I'm sure her husband was listening when I visited today. Has he always been so paranoid?”

 

 

“No…no, sometimes I barely saw him because of his work.”

 

 

Porthos’ words were quiet but d’Artagnan felt them like musket fire. “Maybe he saw _you_.”

 

 

The letter drifted to the table, d’Artagnan stared into nothing. Monsieur Bonacieux had never enjoyed having a Musketeer apprentice as a lodger, he had been clear about that, and he'd always fussed about the rent. But he wouldn’t have had a reason to cause d’Artagnan’s arrest and probable death unless…unless d’Artagnan had been careless and had allowed himself and Constance to be seen in some telling moment together. Monsieur Bonacieux had returned so recently from an important trip, d'Artagnan had grown too used to his absence.

 

 

Perhaps he had been a fool. Perhaps his emotions had overtaken him, causing him to follow his heart rather than his head. Athos didn't say it, but d'Artagnan was sure he was thinking it.

 

 

But was d'Artagnan doing the same now, allowing his heart to speak first again? Did he want to believe the best of Constance, that she had been forced to break his heart rather than by her own choice? His thoughts were thickly painful and cloudy, his fingers curled into a fist.

 

 

There was a touch to his shoulder. Aramis looked at him evenly. “Whatever the state of your heart, this warrants investigation. Bonacieux may yet speak to the Cardinal.”

 

 

Porthos didn't disagree, nor did Athos, Athos who had been so wounded by his wife, who still held himself firmly away from all matters of the heart, who only seemed to find peace now in battle or in wine. D'Artagnan could understand that all too clearly.

 

 

Still, he stared at the letter, at Constance's hand. He thought of her beautiful face, the resolve she'd worn the last time that he'd seen her. Had her eyes been wet? He hadn't noticed in the firelight, too cut down by her cruel words to focus on anything else. Should he have looked closer? Should he have heard through her words?

 

 

He thought of her with blade in hand, of her exhilaration and pride at such secret accomplishments. How she had glowed beside him and how his breath had caught at the sight of her. He had tried not to think of such moments recently, somehow he'd wanted to keep them untainted.

 

 

He didn't crumple her note or throw it away. He nodded wordlessly and numbly at Aramis, his thoughts elsewhere. He had to handle each step here as carefully as he was handling her letter. His emotions could not guide him, they had brought him too much disaster before.

 

 

The others were making plans and d'Artagnan tried to listen. He was resolute, this time he would view things through focused measured eyes, his head would lead him, it _had_ to. But Constance's letter got neatly folded up into his pocket, and deep inside of him, as his thoughts turned afresh, his cold closed heart shuddered.

 

 

_-the end_


End file.
